By Grace Redfern
4th lane way,
down past the traitor trees
that hang with tired tyre swings
and tulips on a tethered string.
don’t stray far,
your letterbox is hidden in autumn leaves
that crumble and crunch under
heavy autumn boots.
is it that time again?
you sleep in
narrow avenues where streetlights
come and go.
they’re here to visit
but not to stay,
reflecting through rose tinted glass:
a star,
skin on display in a burning summer dress
bright throats until the end.
so soon?
was it worth it?
we tick on by,
continuing to tick on,
even when our lips
taste strawberries and peaches
of glass shards ripping us apart.
we’re so fragile, after all.
twenty-four hour clock,
tied to the past,
always stuck at 4.
4th lane way,
you resent our firework touch,
charred handprints cover your door
of those that lived
loved
and burnt.
a life is lived.
a life so short.
but a lifetime of lives.
live within your walls.
4th lane way,
you’re never the same.
your chameleon kitchen
sheds its summer skin,
and smothers out
what we left behind.
winter rubble shakes: the ground, the air,
the desperate doors
and the dealings that deal when they close.
4th lane way,
you are changed,
we paint you bright, lonely colors
drowning out our fear
smothering the fear of those before us.
what do you fear?
do you, too,
fear the fatal shot of time
and the silence that follows the
tick?
we’re gone again,
here to visit,
but not to stay.
you can’t move forward,
tied to your roots,
always stuck
at 4th lane way.
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